Weary Hands
by DollopheadedMerlin
Summary: After years of living in Camelot, Merlin reflects on his childhood in Ealdor.


"What's wrong with you?"

Merlin looked back at Arthur briefly, brow furrowed in question, before turning back to the window. "What makes you ask?"

Arthur stood, closing the distance between himself and the young man sitting at his window. He took quiet steps, cautious of Merlin's reserved mood.

"You seem distracted," Arthur whispered in his ear, causing Merlin to jump. Allowing his king only a short moment to smirk in amusement before swatting him away with a scoff, Merlin settled back into his seat with a sigh.

"I am," he admitted, staring intriguingly up at the frost clinging to the glass in front of him.

Pulling up a chair, Arthur sat down beside his friend, humoring him by looking at the snow settling on the sil. Merlin glanced him, a prompting eyebrow raised.

"Go on," the king encouraged.

Merlin, once again lost in the patterns of the snowflakes on the stained glass, chewed on his lip in thought. "I used to always get so sick in the winter," he eventually said.

"You're sick now," Arthur noted, prodding him in the chest. Merlin let out a soft laugh, the slight rattling in his lungs audible beneath the mirth of it, but then he turned serious again, eyes distant.

"No," he sighed. "Not like this."

Arthur, though stubborn during the best of times, recognized the need for Merlin to let something off of his chest. So, he said nothing, and instead offered his ears and his heart to his friend.

"So often I spent winters confined to my bed, sick and being teased by death, that, when I came to Camelot, I was surprised to have as much as a warm fire and solid walls."

That wisdom that once seemed so foreign in Merlin, the fool he was, resurfaced, startling Arthur. Merlin had no need to hide his thoughts any longer, not now. Not now that he knew of their great destiny and his utter loyalty. It had been so long since the king had heard Merlin speak like this, like he were speaking of himself as if he were two separate people: one wise, mysterious man with a crooked grin, talking of the burdened boy, left defeated and unwanted by the cruel world around him to suffer silently. Arthur had thought that Merlin had little weight left on his chest, that his past confessions had lifted the bulk of his burdens, but, it seemed, that there was still much more of Merlin's troublesome past to uncover.

"I was born sick," he continued. "My mother-she birthed me sick. It was early winter, before it had yet to snow and the midwife abandoned us. She . . . my mother says that my eyes were . . . that I was born with eyes of gold-and they scared that poor girl. Me-an infant unable to even lift his own head-I frightened that girl _so much_ that she dropped me and ran, leaving my mother and I to fend off the cold, already sickly and neglected. It was hard enough for my mother to find someone as a midwife when the whole village thought her to be whore.

"It was a miracle that I hadn't gotten hurt when she'd dropped me, that I landed in my mother's linens, which she gathered me up in as I wailed-and the house shook. Everything cried with me and my raw lungs were fevered with magic and illness but no one would bother to trek through the snow on later days-not when the poor, dumb midwife had rambled on about devils and bad omens for a whole night and day and then some. They left us there and hoped that we froze, so help them.

"My mother, battling her own illness, gave everything she could to keep me alive-and to keep me calm and quiet enough to still the world. We had little food and little warmth and it was all I could do to light the fire with my magic when I was too chilled. It was a wonder I never set the house ablaze what with how much we must have trembled.

"It was Will's mother who'd finally come to aid us, a new widow too struggling with a young child in the storm. She came with Will bundled tightly to her chest, just old enough to crawl and call for milk, unable to leave him behind in the storm. Out of pity she helped us, brought us a little spare food and extra wood. She advised my mother on the care of a sick babe and Will kept grabbing at my little hands like they were something he wanted to keep in his pocket for the rest of his days-not enough days, not enough. I should have let him keep them, maybe they would have been lucky."

Merlin was looking at his hands now, as if he could remember the day out of his own memory. His eyes were glassy and he looked back up at the awkward shapes of snow splayed before him, lost in their random gaps and angles.

"We got better, we survived-but Will's mother never visited in the following winters. The rumor must have met with her ears come the mingling of spring. My mother was wiser for it, though. She prepared for winter early each year, knowing she and I would suffer through it quite alone. Each and every year, I never failed to get sick. She'd give all she had to keep me breathing.

"I found Will again when I was still small. I think it was the vague memories he had of trying to steal my hands that made him want to shake them hello when his mother had passed mine in the market. I had just been learning to walk when my mother set me down for a moment to situate herself in carrying our goods. I waddled a few steps before I stopped and just stood on stiff baby legs and looked up at all the weird faces moving by above me. Then there was a runner-a boy who could walk and knew how his feet worked but might very vell fall flat on his face some days because he hadn't quite figured out how to stop just yet-and he stopped just short of trampling me over and shook my hand, teaching me how to say hello.

"Will's mother tried to help, she really did, but her and my mother really didn't have anything in common to talk about, besides the absence of spouses-and my mother couldn't exactly talk about my father much, not even to me . . .

"I understand why she kept it from me, I think-at first anyways. I just . . . after so long-she should have said _something._ I just grew up not knowing who my father was or if he was even alive. It wasn't until after he died that she told me stories about when they were young, the kind children are supposed to hear from their parents."

Arthur remembered well the day when Balinor died, Merlin holding him in his arms. It had been such a strange experience. Though he had never admitted it back then, he knew Merlin wasn't easily fazed by death, not unless he knew them well. He left a poverted village to work with a physician and walked through life at the heels of a soldier-death was all around him. So, at the time, he had stalled at the sight of Merlin bent over in tears over the body of someone they had only just met. Looking back at it now, guilt stirred in his belly. He'd stomped out Merlin's emotions and blamed the tears on the stress that had been consuming everyone at the time.

Too Arthur recalled vague memories of his father reminiscing about his love life. Only when Arthur and Morgana were truly very young-too young to understand the severity of Uther's loss-did he ever speak of her in earnest. No, he never told them how they'd met or how much they loved each other, but he would just lean forwards in his seat, eyeing the anxious children before him, and answer their pesky questions-what was she like? And he would tell them with a far off look and a small twitch at the corner of his lips exactly what she was like; how she moved, how she talked, how she felt and would feel about her dear Arthur and the bold Morgana. It wasn't much-and Arthur knew now that it was incredibly censored, knowing the true history of his mother and father's relations-but it was enough to put the stirring in his little head to rest. It gave him something to think of, a mother he could picture in his mind in her absence, something Merlin was never given enough to create.

"Funny. You're the reason they met. It was the Purge that brought my father to Camelot. Whilst all of the sorcerers were fleeing, my father was called before the king in hopes that he, a dragonlord, could help him reason with the dragons. And he came. He came and Uther feigned some regret and told him that he just wanted to settle the tension between the beasts and his kingdom so that his people could live without fear.

"He, amongst other dragonlords, worked beside Uther to shepherd the dragons and make peace between them and the innocent citizens of Camelot. But Uther's orders were precise and had hidden meanings. Soon, the dragonlords realized that he had no intentions of peace and tried to leave his service, but he would betray them once more. He slaughtered them-slaughtered them all and the dragons alongside them-and my father was one of the few that remained, that treaded carefully. Uther commanded the last of the dragonlords to imprison Kilgharrah beneath the castle. They refused but he threatened them-said that he'd kill the last of the beasts if they did not do as he asked. They had no other choice-they did-they locked up the last of the dragons in hopes that one day they would be free again, but then Uther turned on the dragonlords once again and ordered their execution. It was only that my father befriended Gaius that he did escape.

"Gaius had grown up in Ealdor-years ago. He was like a big brother to my mother and he knew that she could be trusted to help him. He smuggled my father across the border and my mother kept him hidden and safe. Thankfully, Uther thought all of the dragonlords to be dead, my father's survival unbeknownst to him, and the war on dragons came to a cruel end.

"I don't think my father wanted to get close with the poor woman that housed him-but he did. Gaius had to return to Camelot before he could be missed and so it was my mother alone who cared for the last dragonlord. He made a life there, with her. They were content and safe, but there were days when my father would go distant. My mother would find him, looking over the landscape from atop the nearby hill-beneath which were the caves I had hidden in as a child-and he would just look as hard as he was able until he could just make out the tips of Camelot's towers. My mother would sit with him, wait for him to return to her. He was grateful for her presence and would sometimes talk with her about the dragons and life before the Purge began. Only to her would he express his woes and relay his sufferings and she would tend to his internal wounds until he was numb with her kindness.

"So short a time they had though-too short-for Cenred heard tell of a sorcerer living in one of his outlying villages and sent men to find my father and bring him into service. He was a young king but no less cruel than in more recent times, and already he had been building an army of enslaved sorcerers to do his bidding. Word went around that he was sending a party of knights and slaves to collect the supposed sorcerer and, once again, my father had to flee. He knew that, if Cenred were to get his hands on him, he would either die in a dank cell or be handed over to Uther for a hefty price upon the discovery that he was a dragonlord. So, he left, not telling my mother where he was going or if he was ever coming back. For her own safety, he stayed away, afraid that she would be killed for associating with him. They spent one final night together, remembering one another, imprinting on each other so that they'd never forget the time they'd shared, and then my mother never saw him again-except for in me.

"That's why my mother was seen as a whore. That's why I am a bastard child. The villagers didn't know who my mother kept as company-all they saw was a man come and leave without saying any vows and never to return, leaving my mother in tears of loss that they thought were shame.

"It just . . . all of it . . . it made my life, my childhood _so hard._ I . . ." He stopped, put his hands out in front of him again, and placed them on the window, open palmed. "Thank goodness Will recognized these hands. Thank goodness he took them and led me away from the cruel children with mothers and fathers and stories they could tell that I never heard. He wasn't . . ." He faltered and let his hands fall back into his lap. "Now that I'm here, that things are better, I know that Will was cruel too, but he didn't . . . He didn't _beat me_ on my walk home or try to _drown me_ in the river or _steal_ my and my mother's food so we might starve. He claimed me-made me his own and wouldn't let any of the other children touch me-not when he was around. And yes, he was wrong with some of the things he did, he was wrong to act as though he owned me, but . . . it still _helped;_ having someone who didn't look at you like you were the worst mistake the world had ever made. And he saw my magic and he _liked it._ He had me pick the fruits from the branches out of reach and help dig holes in the woods to hide treasure-silly things they were, like old copper buttons that were worn by the river to shine like gold or a ring we found in the knot of a tree. The tree had grown around the ring, one of its roots stringing straight through it and digging into the ground. He'd looked at me with wide, excited, young eyes and I couldn't refuse. He was the only friend I had-and there were days when he'd threaten to leave me, to-to tell people . . . I could never refuse him when his mind was set. The tree fell. I'd only meant to pull at that one root but the whole thing came down, creaking until it was flat on the land, causing the whole ground to shake. Old man Simmons' lost a few hens when it crushed his chicken coop-came at Will and I with his cane before my mother came running barefoot to come get us.

"Will got better as he got older. He became more of a friend than a . . . keeper. He actually began to care for me as he matured-didn't take advantage of me so much . . . But . . . he'd go quiet sometimes. He'd spend days at a time paying little mind to me and-I couldn't really blame him, but it still hurt. We began to have fights-they'd start over little things but were almost always about the larger picture. He'd tell me that they were right-that magic was wrong for the world and that I should stop using it-that I was a good person with an addiction and all I needed to do was stop. And I did. I stopped using my magic-and part of me knew he was wrong, that it was a part of me-, but I didn't want to lose him so I . . . I purged myself of all my powers one night. I'd found a quiet, empty place by the edge of the woods and I expelled it from my body. And it hurt, it hurt _so much-_ more than the beatings and more than the sick, cruel, outlandish things the children did to me-but I kept going until I was empty . . .

"I think they found me a few days later, cold and pale as death. I was unresponsive for weeks, barely able to twitch my fingers at first. I remember Will coming to see me-so confused. My mother, she overheard him talking to me when he thought we were alone. I was only just recovered enough to speak so I said little to him, but he said enough apologies to let my mother know exactly what had happened. She'd stormed in, all red faced and shaking, and told him to get out of our house. He wasn't allowed to return for the remainder of my recovery and my mother softly scolded me on how foolish it was to tell him of my magic and how sorry she was for what had happened. I cried into her chest for days until I was well.

"When I was better, I tried to pretend that I didn't need Will, that I could move on from him. I didn't want to burden him any longer, but I suppose he liked the weight on his shoulders because he kept coming back and my mother kept getting more and more worried for me. My powers were growing and it was harder and harder for me to keep them under control. I had to hide my emotions-I kept them bottled up and wore a smiling mask so that I didn't cause the ground to shake with grief or the sky to cry along with me.

"That's when my mother knew that I needed help, that she was not knowledgeable enough to teach me about my powers. I kept sneaking out to see Will because I needed _somebody._ I needed someone that I wasn't a burden to. I needed to make myself believe that Will was my friend and that the other cruel children didn't exist, the ones the grew old and left or took up their parents' homes and work, the new children that would bet one another to break into my drafty house and throw stones at my head, the children that cornered me in and kicked at my ribs, the children that had dragged me down to the stream and held my head underwater by my hair, the children that had stolen my books and my shoes and my dignity, the children that had made me grow so very old so very soon . . ."

Merlin had tears falling freely down his face as he stared into the iridescent frost caked to the window, his pale eyes having never torn away

"I was hated," he said, voice trembling. "I thought I was a monster. I wanted to . . . I couldn't do it anymore Arthur, I couldn't cope anymore. I couldn't . . . I couldn't . . ."

Arthur tried desperately to catch Merlin's eye, but the boy was trapped in his memories, in his torment. With a start, he realized what was happening and his eyes went wide.

"Merlin," he gasped, astonished yet concerned. "Merlin, this is a vision."

The warlock let out a long, pitiful moan of desperation and Arthur leapt onto his feet. He threw his hands over Merlin's eyes to block out the sight of the snow that shone like millions of miniature crystals. His shoulders sagged and he let his cold hands fall down to his lap as a sob ripped through him.

Arthur, still holding his hand over Merlin's damp eyes, prompted him to stand and pulled away his chair. He stood on trembling legs and let himself be walked over to the fire. He kneeled at the edge, back to the window, and he leaned heavily towards the hearth, longing for its warmth. Arthur took a knee beside him and held him up. Removing his hand from Merlin's eyes, he looked up into them.

"Look at me," he said, breathing heavily. He rubbed Merlin's shoulder to warm him up and make him more aware. "Hey, look at me."

Trying and failing to compose himself, Merlin obeyed, staring back at his king, eyes dry and tired but very blue and very sad.

"You're gonna be alright, okay?" he asked, cupping the back of Merlin's head with his hand and running his fingers through his hair. "Okay?"

Merlin closed his eyes and nodded, taking a long, rattling breath.

"You're gonna be okay."

Gaius arrived to find Arthur's face full of worry and very pale. His eyes were tired and woeful, his smile forced and concerned. He let the old man in and, in hushed voices, they discussed what had happened.

The physician concluded that Merlin was less having a vision and more so in a daze. He'd seemed fine at the start of the conversation, but the crystallization of the snowflakes plastered on the stained glass window were hypnotizing. He explained how it was, in fact, the winter solstice and that Merlin's magic might have acted of its own accord, playing in time with his emotions like a band of circumstances.

"He just . . . started talking and . . . and he couldn't stop," Arthur continued solemnly. "The things he said. I don't know if I am right to have heard them. I don't know if he had intended for me to hear all that he said."

"Intentional or not," Gaius countered, "I believe that Merlin would trust with such knowledge."

Arthur sighed. "Thank you, Gaius. I think it would be best if we didn't move him."

"I agree," the aged physician said, leaving.

The king bit his lip and went to his bed, taking up a few pillows and a blanket, he went to Merlin by the fire. He found him with his eyes closed and brow furrowed, still leaning over himself on his knees and bowing towards the heat of the flames.

Arthur readied the pillows on the floor and began to gently maneuver his friend onto his side. He stirred for a moment, but did not open his eyes and let himself be laid to rest.

Draping the blanket over his slumbering companion, Arthur whispered goodnight and gave his shoulder one last squeeze of comfort. Then, he returned to his own bed.

Merlin slept a deep, dreamless sleep that night.


End file.
